What Dreams May Come
by G.U.3.S.S
Summary: No matter where she went she couldn't escape. Traveling several hundred miles from home, from the life she was provided, it still didn't make a difference. All she ever wanted was to be somebody; make a name for herself. But never like this.


**What Dreams May Come**

_Chapter One: Anywhere but Here_

**0000**

She ran, legs pumping as she maneuvered her way through rain-slick alleys; heart pounding.

Shoving aside trash cans and various debris, she chanced a look behind her—Suits; she counted four. All black, shapeless masses moving together in unison. No doubt armed and ready to engage. (That is, once they tired of the chase.)

This was a game. From the moment she stepped foot outside the inn, they'd been tracking her, suddenly, and without warning. Appearing in the corners of her peripheral like phantoms. They bore no badge or insignia, nothing to identify them as part of the Law or otherwise: NYPD, FBI, CIA. Hell, the mafia! She'd take the mafia any day; she'd seen enough of the Godfather. Unfortunately for her, these men, whoever they were, _weren't_ of the aforementioned.

No. It was _so much worse_.

She'd heard talk of seemingly random disappearances in the community—it started out small—a few people here and there, nothing _unusual_—and life continued its routine. (If anything, the people brushed it off as comeuppance for irresponsibility.) This part of the city had a concentration of drunks and drug-peddlers, and if someone was found dead, either through overdose or gang-related altercations, no one paid it too much attention. It was only when they took Stacy that she began to expect something was amiss.

_Stacy wouldn't have left. She would've told me. She wouldn't _leave_ me..._

They just took her; skipped the probable cause and erased her without a trace.

You see, Stacy—shy, meek little Stacy—was a mutant. Sweet to a fault; above-and-beyond generous; a little sister. But the world didn't see her that way. She was dangerous. They all were. Who's to stop them from an uprising, a war—they almost succeeded. Multiple times. (Liberty Island. The United Nations. Alcatraz.) All thanks to one man: Erik Lehnsherr, or as he vehemently prefers—Magneto. Self-proclaimed leader and Master of Magnetism. Personally, she thought he could've toned down the egocentricity.

After all, no self-respecting person—mutant, homo sapien, or three-eyed purple people-eater—would EVER let some crack-pot in a cape dictate their lives. (Well, _sane_ people at any rate.)

She shivered. The rain continued its assault, pouring in torrential sheets that pricked her skin; the fabric of her dress well beyond soaked. (Why, oh why did she think it a good idea to wear a dress!) The boots were another thing entirely. (Heels? C'mon!) Definitely not for traction, that was for sure. But she'd berate herself later. When she was far away and safe, and not at risk of being shot, maimed, or detained. Speaking of which...

Up ahead was an abandoned warehouse—once an industrious car factory owned by Ford back in the late fifties—which served as an occasional meet-and-greet for mutant rallies; it was roughly half the size of the Ralph Wilson Stadium, give or take. If she was lucky she could wait it out, or take the sky-walk. (Genius, really. It was built for scenarios just like this one. An escape.) If ever someone needed to make a quick getaway, they'd use the sky-walk: A series of interlocking walkways that led to neighboring rooftops; they were anchored near the fire-escape, accessed by a lever, which functioned more or less like a draw-bridge.

Skidding to a halt, she braced herself against the wall, breaths uneven and lungs burning. The blood pumping in her ears made it difficult to hear, so she quickly turned, front facing the empty scrap yard.

Blinking the rain from her eyes, she cupped her hands above her brows and ignored the anxiety bubbling behind her ribcage. It was dark, nearing nine o'clock, and she could hardly see. (Not in the least bit comforting.) But there was no one there. She wasn't deluded into thinking she had simply lost her pursuers—no, they wouldn't give up that easily—but for now it seemed she had gained a slight reprieve.

Momentarily satisfied that she wasn't in any apparent danger, she crouched low and felt her way along the building's face, hands searching for a break in the wall. She had taken the western route, so the entrance would be considerably small.

About a few yards down she felt an indentation; a door. Pressing palms flat, she forced her weight forwards and was rewarded with a muffled _click!_ Shouldering the door aside she crawled through the two-by-two space and into the awaiting safety of the warehouse.

**0000**

It was dark, unsurprisingly, and cold. Her fingers were numb and her teeth chattered incessantly; sopping strands of hair plastered to her forehead. Overall she appeared the epitome of a drowned rat. With all the temperament to boot.

She rubbed her arms through the thin leather of her jacket and surveyed the damage: It was weather-treated, sure, but she had been out in the rain for a good two hours. If there was any chance of saving it, she'd have to take it to the cleaners. And Handsy Hank. Ugh. Someone had better put that pervert in his place. (But to be fair, that man could fix _anything_.)

Feeling the on comings of a sneeze, she quickly squeezed her nose and counted to ten. In the still darkness of the warehouse she could discern no sight or sound of activity. Definitely no lights, no music, no sense of security. It was a known fact: There was strength in numbers. Something she was distinctly lacking, but if it came down to it—if she absolutely _had_ to—she'd _use it_.

Sitting on the damp stone floor, she waited. Even if she couldn't see anybody, that didn't mean they weren't there.

Call her paranoid—but there was absolutely no telling whether they had managed to slip inside before her, watching and waiting for the chance to corner her. Perhaps they had cased the building days—weeks in advance! Had she seen anybody suspicious? Someone out of place...? She wanted to smack her head against the wall—she couldn't remember! (_What if. What if. What if._)

God, she couldn't bear the thought of finding out. Scrambling to her feet she patted down her coat and clenched her fists to stop the shaking. It was happening again. Panic pumped through her veins and distorted her vision. She needed to remain calm; remain in control. (_She couldn't lose control._)

_Okay. Deep breaths. You can do this. You're on the west side, which means thirty steps to your right will be a set of stairs. Take them. _

With a direction in mind, she steadily measured her steps until she felt the cool metal touch of the railing. Fingers curling around it she ascended the stairs. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot. Don't trip, whatever you do—don't trip.

_This isn't a horror movie—and you're in no way, shape, or form a stereotypical floosie who gets caught in the first fifteen minutes of screen-time. _

Continuing her internal mantra, she made quick work of the stairs, easily reaching the second floor. From here she had to take another two flights to get to the roof; they were a total of sixty steps in front of her.

_See, everything's fine_—you're _fine. Just a little ways left to go and you'll be free. Just a little more. _

As she counted her thirty-sixth step, she paused, foot-in-air, and eyes as wide as saucers. Something was off. Her palms began to sweat, and the hairs on the back of her neck and arms raised.

Clak. Clak.

Heart dropping to her feet, she prayed to whatever deity was listening.

_Please_—_Please let it be someone else! Don't let them find me..._

Clak. Clak. Clak.

This time directly below her.

Eyes fruitlessly searching the darkness, a flash of green reflected to her left. It took only a split second-too-late for her to realize a man equipped with a pair of night vision goggles and a charged stun-gun had scaled the wall and perched atop the railing. Laser pin-pointed straight to her chest.

_Shit..._ She hated being right.

**0000**

_"_—_Broderick. Status report."_

"Yes, sir. We apprehended the girl—went straight for the warehouse."

_"And what is her condition?"_

The man—Broderick—clenched his radio and made a sharp hissing noise between his teeth, "Indeterminable."

There was a pregnant pause over the comm-link and then, in a whisper of static-fury, _"Come again, Agent Broderick?"_

Damn it to hell. "I apologize, sir—our target's status is indeterminable. She disappeared. Jumped off the roof."

_"Well then get somebody down there, and DETERMINE it! Bring a body-bag if you have to—I don't care!"_

"No. You misunderstand me, sir. She just _disappeared_. I've got my men stationed around the perimeter, there's no sight of her anywhere. She's gone."

Having heard the words coming out of his own mouth, he realized a little too late just how ludicrous they made the situation seem.

_"...Disappeared?" _The commander was silent for all of a minute before his blood-pressure rose and sent him into a rage-induced frenzy. Face swollen. Veins popping and spittle flying. (The only consolation: One hundred twenty miles of concrete jungle separated him from potential bereavement.)

_"What does that mean, Agent—that our little runaway mutant's a God damn teleporter!"_

"I don't know," he mumbled, and when the commander demanded he speak louder, he said again, with as much condescension he could muster, "I do not know. _Sir_."

_"You better not be yanking my chain!"_

"No, sir."

Agents swarmed the rooftop, the ones closest to Broderick remained stone-faced as they listened to their commander over the comm. No one made move to intervene. Others milled about the roof, checking ammunition and generally keeping out of the way. (Wouldn't do to incur the wrath of their superiors.) (Especially when Agent Broderick's temper reared its head and his fingers itched to pull the trigger of his gun.)

"What are your orders, sir?"

_"Maintain surveillance. Highly unlikely she'll return, but I want eyes inside and out! Report back to base within an hour..."_

**0000**

"This is troubling, indeed."

Gathered round the prone figure of a young woman, Odin, his guards—Björn, Dagfinnr, Hjálmar—and Heimdall the all-seeing discussed in hush counsel as to the origins (and consequential fate) of one unconscious trespasser.

She lay upon the rocky shore, body lax and limbs wading with the tide. Clothing tattered and badly bruised; a darker stain was visible through the red of her dress. Further inspection would determine the fatality of her condition, but by the steady rise and fall of her chest he surmised they were nothing more than surface wounds. (However, the blue tinge to her lips was a worrisome precursor.)

Dagfinnr knelt beside her and gently, unobtrusively fingered a scrap of her dress. It was smooth to the touch, not unlike silk, and he mused over its length—while torn, it was obviously meant to reach well above the knees. How...inappropriate.

"These are strange garments, milord. Where does she hail from?"

It was not Odin, but Heimdall who spoke, "Midgard."

All, save the king, turned to face the stoic gate-keeper, eyes alight with incredulity. He didn't elaborate further.

"That is not possible," Dagfinnr rose to his feet and turned to his king, a retort hot upon his tongue, "Milord? Surely this cannot be. The mortals possess no knowledge—no means of accessing the Realm Eternal!"

And yet one had. Curious. Odin appraised the young woman, his sole remaining eye seeking signs of wickedness or foul-play. When he found evidence of neither, his gaze considerably softened, "Regardless of whence she came, the fate of this young woman now rests in our hands. And as such, for the time being, so shall she remain."

Dagfinnr made move to protest, but was quickly silenced.

Odin beckoned to his guards, and simultaneously they stood to attention, "Take her to the Healing House. Be swift, and alert no one of her presence."

With a final wave of his hand he dismissed them, "Go, now."

Backs straight and heads held high, the guards bid their king farewell; right arms pressed firmly to their breast, they saluted him. Björn carefully scooped the young maiden into his arms and turned swiftly on his heel, cape wrapped securely around her middle. For all appearances ensuring warmth, as well as shielding her from view.

Odin watched them leave, their figures steadily shrinking in the distance. When he could see them no more, he let loose a weary sigh.

"Tell me, my friend. Is it true?"

Heimdall turned his attention to his king, "I am afraid so. The girl...she is _different_. She did not travel by way of the Bifrost, for that I am certain," he paused, almost hesitant, "For a moment _I could not see_."

"And that is what concerns me," Hands clasped behind his back, Odin followed the path to the palace; Heimdall falling into step beside him.

Parallel thoughts of _how_ and _when_—and _what does this mean?_—brought forth a sudden overwhelming sense of unease.

"We must remain vigilante. However she came to access the paths between our worlds, whatever magicks are responsible... When our _guest _awakens I shall call forth a meeting—if our borders are jeopardized, others will surely learn of its weakness."

(Something was coming. He could feel it with each passing day; the call of the Odinsleep weighing heavily upon him. He could not put it off much longer. They needed to be prepared.)

Almost as an after-thought he added, "Thor and Loki—where are my sons?"

Heimdall canted his head to the side, amber eyes seeing far beyond the reaches of the kingdom.

"They have just arrived"—his brows furrowed—"Something has happened. They search for you."

**0000**

**(End of Chapter One)**

This is by far, the longest chapter I think I've ever written in my entire life. And I apologize for the rather slow start, but it had to be done. Without a solid foundation and introduction of characters, the whole story would fall apart, and besides, I hate it when people give a brief, "Hey this is my character, so-and-so, and this is what happens," cliché. It's completely detrimental. And to clear things up: I _deliberately_ left things disjointed to give you, the reader, the opportunity to speculate. So please, don't send me notes telling me my chapter's missing something and/or isn't finished. Trust me. I know what I'm doing. All will be revealed in time. Just bear with me.

Anyhoo, I would definitely love to hear what you all think, and how I can improve and whatnot.

Oh, and before I forget! I do not own any of the established characters, be it MARVEL or in the case of Thor, its mythological templates. I do however, own Mystery Lady; Stacy; the Agents; Odin's guards Björn, Dagfinnr, and Hjálmar; and of course, Handsy Hank. Who in my opinion is very much under-appreciated for all his..._quirks_.

Until next time, kids!


End file.
